


it's actually not anything like possession, you're just gay

by queerlytuned



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: M/M, Vore, yeah.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:01:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29099976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerlytuned/pseuds/queerlytuned
Summary: Soft fic, mind the tags.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 21





	it's actually not anything like possession, you're just gay

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this a couple months after the show came out. It takes place in a very slight AU wherein Aziraphale possessed Crowley at some point while he was incorporeal. I was going to write that as a first chapter, but I didn't, so I'm saying it here. It doesn't really have a bearing on much, though!

Aziraphale comes to Crowley's flat, not that he has any other options. Having the demon leaning across him in the bus seat has equal effectiveness to a cat on a human's lap, in terms of their ability to keep the respective hostages in place.

Now in the flat, Crowley slouches across the couch, head positioned such that he can watch Aziraphale pacing up and down the room and its walls without much twisting of his neck. One arm extends flat along the back of the couch, and the other hangs loosely over the edge. Aziraphale doesn't look back at him, just stares at the floor and mumbles on about prophecies in jumbled fragments that Crowley can't make out.

"Take a break," Crowley urges. "Help you think clearer."

"There isn't time!" Aziraphale says, voice high with worry. "They could come for us here,  _ tonight. _ Who knows when they…"

Crowley hisses, frustrated. "They need time. Gotta sort things out. You know how angels are with sorting."

"What about your side?"

"It's Hell. Of course there's paperwork."

Aziraphale sighs. "You rest, then, Crowley.  _ I _ need to figure this out, for our lives' sake."

"You need rest too," Crowley insists, actually lifting his head now to face Aziraphale. "When was the last time you got any proper sleep?"

Aziraphale frowns. The only times he's slept have been experimental at most, and never for centuries like Crowley sometimes did. Admittedly, he'd gotten a bit nervous about the prospect of oversleeping and getting another strongly worded note for missing a report deadline.

Aziraphale sits down next to Crowley, though he remains rigid. "You know, if today hadn't been so… stressful, I could very well have slept through that drive, in your body." Their thighs are touching, and he seems perfectly aware, because the leg making contact is perfectly still while the other shoe taps anxiously on the floor.

"Really?" Crowley says. He can't really imagine a version of today that  _ wasn't _ stressful, but then again, he had his own body to pilot the whole time, and that tended to be rather trying.

"I wish I…" Aziraphale falters, then finds his voice again, "I wish I could share how that felt."

"Well, don't go discorporating me just to tell me how nice the view is behind someone else's eyes."

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, an I'm-offended-you'd-even-think-of-it gesture. "Of course not."

"Doubt they'd go issuing me a new body now, anyway. They were already nosy about the ordeal before I committed crimes against evil."

Aziraphale laughs a little. "Heaven, too. Made me so careful about losing it for so long…"

"Were you?" Crowley asks innocently, prompting a bit of a blush. He grins at that, but loses the expression not long after. "Can't ask the kid for a new one again, either."

"It's funny," Aziraphale says. "I think this is the same body as before. Not that I've much experience with getting new ones, so I wouldn't know, but… Oh, I don't know. It feels lived in, I suppose, which is a strange thing to say about a body, really."

As he goes on, Crowley leans further back into the couch, starting to tune out the ramble in favor of his own dangerously rampant thoughts. He presses so hard into the cushion that he actually feels the backing behind it before he says, "There's other ways to get in someone."

"What?"

"Other ways than possession," says Crowley, his tone very carefully dismissive. Over the side of the couch, his hand clenches and unclenches on repeat. "Like... getting real small."

Aziraphale turns slowly to face the demon. He wants to ask for clarification, but the tension is palpable, and he doesn't want to scare off the suggestion by forcing it into words. So instead he says, "Well, that's… creative."

Crowley leans even harder into the couch, so much that Aziraphale can feel the displaced stuffing pressing against his own back. The angel nearly speaks again, but then Crowley sits forward, springing the couch back into shape. "M'gonna do that anyway, actually. Get small. Easier to sleep."

He is very, very tired, and hoping that what he can't begin to convince himself aren't bad decisions don't lead to undesirable outcomes. He trusts Aziraphale, very much, and he is too tired from today to pretend that he doesn't.

So without waiting for feedback, Crowley plants his chest on top of the armrest and shrinks to that spot until he's about as many inches tall as he used to be feet.

While it's true that he's done this to sleep once or twice, it isn't a  _ regular _ occurrence, nor does it necessarily make anything easier. It's just occasionally convenient to fold a blanket over himself so many times that the universe and its machinations are drowned out for a goddamned minute it two. But he doesn't go looking for anywhere to sleep, yet. He just stands and looks at Aziraphale, his glasses doing less work than the size of his face is to keep his feelings hidden.

Not that any of that is any good in the first place, hiding emotions from an angel, but he likes to feel productive.

Hesitantly, Aziraphale scoots over towards the armrest.

Crowley is familiar with every detail of Aziraphale's face after millennia of watching with every spare moment, but this is still a view that fills his chest. Six thousand years' worth of smiles, both tender and tense, are crinkled around the angel's eyes. Which are very frequently focused elsewhere, in Crowley's experience, so it sends a chill up his spine when he realizes just how  _ seen _ he feels right now, regarded so softly, yet dangerously knowingly, by those eyes.

There are hints of concern and calculation in Aziraphale's gaze, but mostly he is just  _ looking. _

Slowly, Aziraphale extends a hand beside the armrest, just by Crowley's feet. Crowley steps wordlessly onto it. Aziraphale lifts his hand to about the level of his chest.

Crowley has seen Aziraphale handle ancient tomes that would probably, by his personal assessment, collapse into dust if you looked at them wrong. He has seen the angel move a mug of piping hot cocoa through the bookstore, so full that the surface tension held the liquid just above the rim, and manage not to spill it with nary a miracle.

But these are rare moments, and bearing witness to them does not prepare Crowley for the slow realization that there's a mild pressure on his back.

It's Aziraphale's other hand, the thumb, so gentle that it might have been a fly if it didn't stroke down his back. He's still watching Crowley, but the motion is absentminded, mild.

Crowley zones out at some point, leaning so far into the motion that Aziraphale struggles to keep going without dragging the demon's entire body along with it.

It's when Aziraphale stops that Crowley realizes that he's fallen to his knees, and that his wings are out.

There isn't any truce, unspoken or otherwise, about  _ not _ having their wings out around each other; it's just rare, as they tend to be more permanently vulnerable than their very replaceable bodies (though that difference is sort of moot, now). Even angels or demons among their own kin don't tend to go flaunting their wings about if it isn't important, and in Aziraphale and Crowley's case, there just doesn't tend to be a casual moment for it. So many of their meetings were public, after all, and humans were known to be annoyingly aggravated by breaks in the norm.

Crowley is too busy trying to make it look like falling to his knees was intentional to let himself process any of  _ those _ implications, though. He shifts into a sitting position in Aziraphale's palm. He doesn't look up at the angel until he realizes there's shade over him, suddenly.

Aziraphale thought it might come off rude to stare at Crowley's wings without at least manifesting his own, so he does. They crest in front of him, making walls around Crowley.

Looming and white, like Heaven, but soft around the edges, like Aziraphale.

Aziraphale strokes Crowley's black feathers, more deliberately than before. Crowley's wings relax down into his hand, giving him a more linear path to follow.

Slowly, Aziraphale's hand moves in towards his chest, until Crowley can lean against him--and does. He slumps into the angel's coat as exhaustion from the day takes everything out of him that Aziraphale hasn't.

They're quiet like that for a few minutes. Then Aziraphale lifts the demon back up and says, "Crowley."

Crowley tries to stretch his wings out, only to find that they've fallen between Aziraphale's fingers hanging from where he lies. He drowsily sits up and pulls them along, and then stretches his wings and arms. He slowly blinks sleep out of his eyes, which are now unobscured by the sunglasses that have fallen to his chest.

"Oh, sorry," Aziraphale says.

"S'wrong?" Crowley asks, not sensing any terrible urgency in Aziraphale's voice, and a little disappointed to have lost that moment of peaceful sleep so quickly.

"Well, I just thought--I mean, I was--Well, I didn't mean to interrupt your sleep about it, and you're welcome to get back to that, if you'd like--"

"It's fine," Crowley says. The moment is gone, anyway. "What was it you wanted?"

"The, um," Aziraphale swallows and does not make eye contact. "What you proposed earlier. I was wondering if you still wanted to do that."

Crowley squints at him for a while, searching his head for a conversation that may as well have happened years ago rather than minutes. But then it clicks. "Oh."

"It's your decision, of course, by all means. I just thought I'd let you know that I… wouldn't mind."

"Wouldn't mind what?" Crowley asks, mostly because he sees an opportunity to deflect his embarrassment, and because he knows the reaction will be amusing.

Aziraphale blushes, still looking away. He hardly sees why he should have to be the one to put words to it, not being the proposer of the idea, but he obliges anyway. "Well, it isn't as if you were all that clear about it yourself, but my understanding was--was, um, I thought you wanted me to," he coughs very slightly, as though choking on the word, "swallow you?"

"Right," Crowley says, with at least the mercy to affirm it as soon as the sentence ends.

"As far as alternatives to possession go," Aziraphale says, clearly relieved, "this is certainly an interesting one."

"You say that like there's others," Crowley says, squinting. "Are there others?"

Aziraphale shrugs. "Likely not, with our head offices so at odds with us. Not keen on sharing resources," he says, and does not let himself think further on it than that, for worry of panicking about the whole thing again.

His grip on the demon shifts. Crowley finds his wings pressed back into folded position and his arms pinned to his sides as Aziraphale traps him in one hand.

Aziraphale's index finger moves along the back of Crowley's head, getting lost in the fuzzy sensation of his hair. Crowley elects not to complain about the style getting messed up, this time, mostly because it's getting him into a daze again.

It's when Aziraphale lifts Crowley up to his face that they both sober up. Crowley's gaze trails down the angel's face with equally growing measures of apprehension and interest, and comes to rest on his mouth.

Then Aziraphale brings him close, so suddenly that he almost flinches, and he doesn't see Aziraphale's mouth open before he shuts his own eyes, but he can feel a soft pressure over the top of his head. But then it subsides, and he's brought back away. The whole thing had been dry, and Aziraphale looks a little nervous, mostly fond. It was a kiss, Crowley realizes.

"Do you want to go through with this?" Aziraphale asks. His hand shifts around Crowley, not changing position so much as fidgeting, and giving the effect of a massage. It loosens enough to free his arms.

Crowley's head scrunches down on his neck, avoidant. "Do you?"

"I want you to have a nice night," Aziraphale says. "There are many ways to do that."

But this is the one that Aziraphale offered, the one that required a terrible amount of trust, and that the angel had been simultaneously eager to share and afraid Crowley wouldn't like.

Crowley reaches for his sunglasses instinctively, still splayed on his chest (whose miracle kept them from falling, he isn't sure), but stops short of moving them towards his face. If he's being honest, and very reasonable at that, the way the angel described it sounded enviable. Why pass up what might be the last opportunity he ever gets for a nap, especially after a day like this? Maybe if he's  _ inside _ the angel, he won't be woken every five minutes about the whole heaven-and-hell's-punishments ordeal, and he can just avoid the whole thought, in the vein of the many humans they'd rescued.

"Yeah," he says finally, holding his sunglasses out. "Sure. Let's do it."

Aziraphale holds out his other hand very carefully until Crowley puts the glasses down on it, and he sets them down delicately on the coffee table. He brings Crowley closer to his face once more, then pauses with a stern look. "And you'll let me know if you'd like to stop."

"Trust me, you'll know," Crowley says with a hint of his grin, earning an unimpressed look from the angel, but Aziraphale nods.

"Alright. Well." The angel hesitates only a few moments longer, final conflict and decision all animated on his face. "In you go, then."

Crowley doesn't even have time to remark on the awkward way he said it before he's brought up to Aziraphale's mouth again.

This time, with his eyes open, he sees Aziraphale's tongue reach out to receive him. He's set down very carefully, with the angel avoiding touching his own tongue--a habit from following human traditions for eating, assumedly--and then Crowley is slowly drawn into his mouth.

Then lips and teeth close behind him, and Crowley is in darkness. He starts instinctively trying to get his bearings. He plants his hands on the tongue beneath him, only to slip when he tries to lift himself up. He keeps struggling to get up, and with Aziraphale's tongue flailing beneath him, his limbs all feel useless. The whole ordeal is a bit like being a snake in a washing machine.

Not that Crowley would know.

He isn't sure whether Aziraphale is trying to help him or stop him with his tongue, but it doesn't particularly matter, because it's only adding to the chaos. He scrambles about, even his wings trying to flap in the damp air to orient him, barely rolling back to being face down before everything shifts again.

The tongue rises very quickly, and before he can do anything, Crowley finds himself squished against the ceiling.

The tongue presses into his body, molding around him like a slimy pillow. His wings splay out awkwardly across the roof of Aziraphale's mouth. There's no hope of folding them, being sandwiched like this, but he manages to pull them in just shy of Aziraphale's teeth. Wetness soaks in between his feathers, which feels sort of nice. Tickly.

Crowley considers dismissing his wings from his form, to make Aziraphale's coming role slightly easier. But then, the angel might take it the wrong way, and it's not as though getting him down will be difficult, regardless of appendages, unless Aziraphale wants it to be. Such is the nature of having magic at one's disposal.

The saliva that's been slowly filling the space, barely registering to Crowley, suddenly gets sucked back. He's pressed more firmly against the ceiling, and Aziraphale swallows.

Aziraphale can't conventionally talk like this, but Crowley hears him take a deep breath and send it out harshly, through his nose.

"Alright, alright," Crowley relents, his voice muffled because his face is halfway pressed into the tongue, and he's getting some foreign saliva in his mouth.

He isn't actually sure whether Aziraphale can hear him, if he isn't putting in the effort to, so Crowley commits with gesture too. With some willpower, the demon goes mostly limp.

This seems to satisfy Aziraphale well enough, because the tongue lowers, releasing him from the grip. It takes a lot more effort for Crowley not to spring up and try to get upright again.

Instead, he lets Aziraphale's tongue handle him, which it does. It twists under Crowley and flips him over, and then while he's still disoriented, he gets dumped somewhere. He feels the rough tops of teeth slide under him, and then he's in a sort of hammock right next to the gums.

"Cheeky," Crowley says mildly.

The teeth don't ever close, leaving Crowley space to spread out over them if he desires, which he doesn't.

The whole mouth changes shape, stretching into what, if Crowley were still looking on from outside, he might identify as the distinct smile that preceded the angel saying something he was sure would be funny (results may vary). Then light streams in and, consonants muffled by the still-open jaw, Aziraphale says, "I was worried you might burn my tongue." His voice is soft, or trying to be, but it still vibrates through Crowley's whole body like a tone through a wineglass.

Crowley laughs. It's partly the joke, but also partly the fact that he's actually literally inside an angel's mouth--Aziraphale's mouth--and he's not actually scared at all.

While he's taking that in, Aziraphale's lips close, and open, and close again, and he swallows some of the saliva that's been pooling around Crowley again.

Then Aziraphale says, "My dear," and Crowley's entire space is filled with the affection of the word for a fleeting moment. "Are you ready?"

"Been ready," Crowley says, although he has not. He's ready now, though.

The tongue plunges back into his little nook and scoops him out. Now that he's not fighting for his own control of his movements, he can feel just how careful Aziraphale is being with his tongue. The movements caress him, rolling him around and soaking him through. It's sort of relaxing.

Crowley hardly notices the saliva pooling around him as the movements slow. He just lies back on Aziraphale's tongue, feeling like he might fall asleep for the second time today.

Then he's lifted and pressed against the roof again, more gently this time because it's not a restraint. After a long moment and some shifting of the tongue against Crowley, Aziraphale swallows.

Crowley folds his wings back in, and locks his arms to his sides, to avoid any awkward positioning as he goes down. Aziraphale swallows a second time, and Crowley is fully taken past his throat.

Two swallows is all it takes, perhaps because of his size, or perhaps because Aziraphale simply thought two would do, and so they did.

Crowley is squeezed from all sides, his limbs all pinned flat to him. He's never much been a fan of small spaces; even Hell is pretty crowded for his tastes, which is why he worked to keep his assignment on Earth so long in the first place, before he got better motivations.

But then there's the bookshop, which is as cluttered and claustrophobic as Hell, if not more. And he's never really had issue with that, because it's  _ Aziraphale's _ space, and that makes it far less of a problem.

Unlike every building he's ever been in, though, Aziraphale's throat is very soft, and Crowley rather likes the sensation of a massage as he descends. He passes by Aziraphale's heartbeat, louder and then softer as he goes, beating a bit fast. He wonders why Aziraphale chooses to manifest one.

He has wondered this before, when his ear has fallen near Aziraphale's chest, or when his fingertips cross the underside of the angel's wrist. He wonders if it's to avoid human suspicion, even though he's never known Aziraphale to let a human get close enough to worry about that, and then more selfishly he wonders if it's for him.

Come to think of it, in his memory, despite all their holy light, Crowley doesn't think angels aside from his actually tend to be  _ warm. _

Along with the downward massage, Crowley feels the whole tunnel rise and fall with slow, controlled breaths. He briefly wonders if it was true he didn't burn Aziraphale's tongue. Contemplates the opposite. Hopefully swallowing him isn't like swallowing ice; that's one of his personal least favorite things to do.

But he knows he has weight here, at least. Very little, just enough. He hopes Aziraphale can feel it.

Slowly, the demon is pushed into a wider space, and he instantly lets himself collapse into the floor. He sinks into the soft flesh, relishing the fact that he has no need for breathing as he lets fluid cover him entirely.

"Crowley?" comes Aziraphale's voice, not as overpowering as it was in his mouth, but still vibrating through the space. "Everything going well?"

"Mm. Fantastic," Crowley mumbles into the flesh, not bothering to pull himself up. He knows he's being listened to this time.

"Oh, good," Aziraphale says, not entirely certain of what to do next, which Crowley thinks is the angel's problem.

"M'gonna… sleep," Crowley says, rolling over onto his side. His back braces against what could be considered a wall, by loose standards.

Aziraphale takes a deep breath as he feels Crowley move. In paying so much attention to Crowley's position, he's been feeling for him the entire time, but Aziraphale didn't realize how much he'd turned his senses inwards until now; usually, like a human, there aren't many nerves  _ inside _ his organs at all. Now he's almost certain he can feel Crowley's fingertips idly slide along the stomach wall.

And Crowley is  _ safe. _ Aziraphale's chest swells with some mix of pride and happiness and relief to know that, come Hell or holy water, he's between the demon and the world.

"Yes, I… perhaps I'll do the same," Aziraphale says, looking at the couch.

"Take th'bed," Crowley slurs. "Better'n the couch."

"Oh--If you're sure, my dear."

"Mmhm."

Crowley feels everything move as Aziraphale stands and walks. Aziraphale feels Crowley sit up, briefly, and then lean against a fold in the wall for the ride.

It doesn't fully hit Aziraphale what he's been given permission for until he's standing in the doorway of the bedroom. That's Crowley's bed.

Crowley isn't  _ in _ it, of course, though he sort of will be if Aziraphale lies down. Not in the conventional way, at least.

Aziraphale takes off his shoes and lies flat on top of the sheets, wings folded under him, and rests his clasped hands over where he can feel Crowley settling down. Everything about their current situation with their head offices is nerve-wracking, but at least for the moment he's fine. And Crowley is here, safe, and  _ very _ accounted for.

Crowley wiggles further into a corner. Aziraphale smiles, and starts to fall asleep himself.

…

"Crowley," Aziraphale whispers, some hours later, but the demon is deep asleep. He lays a hand on his stomach and tries to jostle him a bit, which accomplishes nothing but getting Crowley to roll over. Which is a lovely, ticklish feeling, but that's besides the point.

After a few more minutes of deliberating and whispering, Aziraphale steels his resolve, because they both might die tomorrow if he doesn't, after all.

Crowley sleeps through the stomach walls clamping down around him and starting to push him upwards. But then when Aziraphale sits up, the sudden shift in orientation wakes him up with a start.

Crowley jolts in place before realizing that he's pinned in place, at the mercy of the muscles tugging at him.

"Angel," he complains, at the height of his articulative powers.

"Apologies, my dear," Aziraphale says. "This is very important. And it's nearly dawn, besides."

His voice gets louder as Crowley rises into his throat. "Couldn't even sleep in the day after the apocalypse, huh?"

Crowley slides limply back onto the angel's tongue, and he lets it press him into the roof one final time as Aziraphale swallows the excess saliva that came up with him.

Then Aziraphale puts a hand up to his mouth and gently deposits Crowley onto it.

Crowley is instantly shivering. He's wet and cold-blooded, and he's grown very fond of being surrounded by Aziraphale's body heat. He flattens himself against the angel's hand.

Aziraphale miracles him dry and puts his other hand over Crowley, leaving only his wings sprouting between the fingers.

Then Aziraphale takes Crowley fully into the other hand, flipping him onto his back. He cups his hand under Crowley's form, and with his other, he sets thumb and forefinger at the base of the demon's hanging wings, and then slides them outwards to the tips.

Warmth follows, spreading from the angel's touch, and Aziraphale is more than pleased when Crowley's reacting tremble is no longer a shiver from cold.

"So what was so important?" Crowley asks, though his voice has entirely lost its bite, along with any semblance of assertiveness.

"Well," Aziraphale says, with a grin that's halfway between giddy and mischievous, in a way that instantly has Crowley's attention. "I believe I've discerned the meaning of Agnes Nutter's final prophecy."


End file.
